


Comfort Where We Overlap

by fadedink



Category: Blade (Movie Series)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedink/pseuds/fadedink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone needs a little comfort.  Even the strongest people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort Where We Overlap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alyse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyse/gifts).



> So this turned into a 5+1 situation. Um. And there are hints of Abigail/Hannibal if you tilt your head and squint? Either way, thank you so much for requesting this (I enjoyed writing it far more than I expected), and I hope you like it. :)
> 
> Title is from the Ani Difranco song, "Comfort" and the original line is “I know there is strength in the differences between us. I know there is comfort where we overlap.”

1.

It's late (or early, depending on how you look at the clock) and Abigail has just managed to get to sleep when something wakes her. She takes a few critical seconds to catalog her surroundings even as she shakes off the fuzziness from too many hours awake.

Her room should be empty.

It is, after all, the middle of the night.

She can't hear breathing, but someone is there.

The silver spike is already in her hand, point out, as she rolls from the bed and lands on her feet. There's a split second of resistance, followed by a muffled curse, and a hand curls around her wrist.

Hannibal King.

His grip is firm, but not tight. She could break it if she tries.

"If you want to stick me with something," he says, far too close in the near total darkness, "I can think of far more pleasant things."

"What the hell, King." She snatches her hand back and reaches for the bedside lamp.

He beats her to it.

As light floods the room, she blinks against it, stake still firm in her grasp as her eyes adjust. Hannibal just stands there, wearing a loose pair of pajama pants and a white tank-top that sports a small spot of red just over his heart, watching her.

Even in the dark and half-asleep, her aim had been true.

But it's the look on his face – in his eyes – that makes her set the stake on the table. His expression reminds her of a child she saved from an attack months ago. Not the openness and vulnerability, but the confusion, like he's lost and he's not sure how it happened.

"Hannibal," she quietly says, watching as he rubs at his chest where the stake had pierced skin, "why are you in here at –" she pauses to glance at the clock "—3:30 in the morning?"

His shoulders ripple in a shrug, the motion drawing her eyes. The old bite marks are still visible, slowly fading scars – compliments of his time spent as Danica Talos' toy – and there are a lot of them. Danica, Abigail knows, has never been particularly careful with her toys.

"Hannibal."

"Couldn't sleep," he finally says, eyes darting away from hers. She steps in front of him. "What?"

The last few weeks have more than acquainted her with Hannibal's sarcastic nature. But they've also taught her one crucial thing in dealing with him: if the situation grows uncomfortable or awkward, Hannibal's mouth opens and he reveals far more than she knows he realizes.

So she stands there, arms loose at her sides, and _looks_ at him. He looks back, stubborn and defiant. The silence stretches out. Then his gaze drops.

"What if it doesn't work?"

His voice is low, so low that she's not sure she hears him at first. And even though she manages to keep the shock from her face, Abigail can't say she's surprised. When Sommerfield had finalized the antidote, they'd decided against wasting time. They were going to try it on Hannibal in the morning.

And while the theory is sound, none of them know for sure. But just the possibility is the first forward step they've had in a long time.

"If it doesn't, we'll try something else." It's all she can offer, but it's the truth.

But Hannibal flinches. It's small, more a quick spasm of his spine, but Abigail still sees it. "It'll work," she says. "Hannibal, look at me."

It takes a few seconds, but he finally lifts his gaze to hers. And it's not confusion she sees there, but fear.

"Hannibal –"

"What if it doesn't?" he repeats, voice low and harsh. "What if I _die_?"

It's a possibility. After all, it's not like they've had the time – or the subjects – to test it. Hannibal will be the first. But Abigail keeps those thoughts to herself. She won't lead him into a self-defeating loop. "It would be better to die, wouldn't it," she says, choosing each word, "than to continue as a vampire. Right?"

"No. Yes." He stops, fists clenching and unclenching before his shoulders sag. "I want to live."

"You will." Her hand catches his, holds fast when he tries to pull back. Without another word, Abigail steps back and tugs him with her.

She doesn't stop until she's sitting on the edge of the bed. He doesn't speak when she pulls him down beside her, and neither does she. Instead, she just falls back onto her pillow and opens her arms when he hesitates.

The light is still on when he stretches out beside her, body stiff as she wraps her arms around his shoulders. It's still on when he finally relaxes and scoots closer, cuddling into her embrace as she rests her cheek on the top of his head.

It might not be much, but it's a comfort Abigail knows she can offer. And if it does end up being his last night on earth, at least Hannibal won't have to spend it alone. 

 

2.

Late night television is full of infomercials, reruns from decades past, and bad programming. Abigail accepted this fact a long time ago.

But it's not enough to keep her from channel surfing.

The complex is mostly silent, broken by the random, muted _thump,thump,thump_ as Dex and Hedges play basketball, but Abigail tunes them out with no effort. Before long, though, a soft scuffing draws her attention and she looks up as Hannibal shuffles into what they've started calling the living room. He's a month gone from being cured, but only two days out of the hospital roomed they'd rigged for him.

The antidote had worked, but it had been hell on Hannibal's body.

A blanket, thin and worn, is wrapped around his shoulders and he clutches the edges of it tight against his chest. One corner of it drags the floor as he walks, drawing her attention to his feet.

He's wearing bunny slippers.

Her lips quirk in a small smile.

"Feeling better?"

He grumbles out a noise that might be an agreement and shrugs. "I don't feel like I'm going to barf up my toenails."

As he steps closer, his eyes find the TV and that gives Abigail a chance to take a good look at him.

He's lost weight. It shows in the sharp angles of his face and the deep hollows of his eyes. And he's still unsteady, his body betraying him as the hand holding the blanket shakes slightly. As much as it pains her to admit it, he looked better as a vampire.

But Abigail keeps the words behind her teeth and slides over before patting the cushions beside her. He gives her a wary look – they're still not completely comfortable, rough edges butting up against each other as they try to find a decent fit – but he sinks onto the sofa and breathes a small sigh of relief.

"You know," she says as she picks up the remote and starts clicking through the channels once more, "barfing up your toenails might be good."

"Says you." His words lack their usual bite, and it's far from his best comeback. "Clearly you've never barfed up your toenails."

"Still, I bet there are worse things you could barf up," and she sees his mouth drop open from the corner of her eye.

"That," he manages after a long moment, "is disgusting."

Abigail just smiles and sets the remote on the coffee table before resting her feet on the scarred wood. They watch the movie in silence – it's some bad, sub-B grade sci-fi film – and it isn't long before Hannibal's shoulder is pressed against hers. And when he nudges, Abigail just shifts over to the end of the sofa and lets him slide down to put his head on her thigh.

She waits until he's settled. "Sommerfield's going to kill you for being up, you know that, right?"

"It's better than staying in that bed another minute," Hannibal says, his eyes already at half-mast. He makes a quiet sound as Abigail starts to comb her fingers through his hair. "Be honest. She gave me the most uncomfortable bed in the whole place, didn't she?"

"She might have."

"She hates me."

"If she hated you, she'd have given you something to make you _really_ sick."

Hannibal rolls his head just enough to peer up at her, and Abigail fights to keep a bland expression on her face. It's clear he isn't sure if she's joking or not. But he doesn't say anything. He just looks at her for a moment before turning back to the television.

"Thank you," he murmurs a few minutes later, just when she's convinced he actually is asleep.

"You're welcome."

 

3.

Five years of being a vampire (and a slave, but Abigail never says that out loud) can't be erased by a series of shots and a few weeks of bed rest. None of them, least of all Hannibal, had expected anything less.

So no one says a word over the weeks and months spent in the gym as he works on regaining his strength

And no one says a word the night he suits up with guns and knives and doesn't quite meet anyone's eyes. But the doubts are plain in every gaze that lands on Abigail. And she has her doubts as well, but she keeps them to herself.

Of them all, Hannibal has the most reason to stalk and kill vampires. Of them all, he has the most reason to hate.

Hannibal finally looks at her, chin lifted to a stubborn angle. Abigail just nods.

The fight, when it finds them, is brutal. They're outnumbered, but they're not outgunned because Abigail has her bow and Hannibal has a magazine full of Sun Dogs. The first vampire goes down with a knife in her throat and a Sun Dog in her chest, and it sends the others into a frenzy.

Eight to two aren't exactly odds that Abigail would choose, but she doesn't back down. She can't. And neither can Hannibal. So they fight with everything in them.

Blood covers every available surface by the time the last vampire disintegrates with a wailing cry. Hannibal is on his knees in the middle of the piles of ash that are all that remain of the blood-suckers. His eyes are wide, staring at nothing, and his chest heaves with each breath.

He's wound so tight that Abigail wouldn't be surprised to see him explode.

She steps forward, keeping her moves slow and deliberate, staying in his line of sight, and touches his shoulder. Hannibal flinches.

Then a small noise, a strangled sob, escapes him and he lurches forward to wrap his arms around her hips. She just braces herself, her hands light on his head, and feels him shudder against her.

 

4\. 

When Abigail wakes, it takes a few seconds for her surroundings to register. She's in a hospital bed – the same one they'd set up all that time ago for Hannibal – and the only light is a single lamp on a nearby table. She can hear the soft beeping of a heart monitor, and her head throbs with each beep from the machine.

No surprise, given the way her vision doubles when she turns her head. Definitely a concussion. And she can feel the gauze of a bandage stretching above her right eye.

When she lifts her hand to her head, she sees the plaster covering her left arm from her elbow to the base of her fingers.

Just like that, it all comes back.

The battle had been short, bloody, but the vampires had refused to die easy. She can remember the last one. He'd been big, twice her size, towering over even Hannibal, and he'd come straight for her. And Abigail, well, she'd always been incapable of backing down from a fight.

She's paying the price now.

A quiet sound, different from the beeping, draws her attention as Hannibal sits up in the chair.

"You know, if you're trying for Sleeping Beauty, you have a few more decades to sleep," he says, but his eyes give him away.

They're haunted, red-rimmed, and Abigail remembers hearing him scream as pain had exploded through her skull.

"Yeah," she finally says, "and who'd look after you?"

He just stares at her for a long moment before his lips twitch in the semblance of a smile. "There are easier ways to ask for a vacation."

"Too much paperwork."

Hannibal nods as if conceding the point, but she can see the stiff line of his shoulders as he scoots the chair closer. "I thought you –" His voice is rough, and he stops to take a deep breath. Rubbing a hand over his face, up through his hair, he looks away. "You're going to be okay."

"I know."

He nods again and looks around. His hands tighten on the arms of the chair.

"Hannibal," she says, and every muscle in his body stiffens, his spine curving forward, his knuckles white. "I'm _fine_."

His eyes don't meet hers, not yet, but some of the tension leaves his body. "I know," he says, so quietly that the words are barely audible. "Too mean to, well."

Abigail laughs and smiles when he finally meets her gaze. She sees the wet gleam of his eyes. When he curls towards her, his head coming to rest on the edge of the mattress, she doesn't say a word.

And when his hand reaches beneath the sheet to curl around her knee, his grip just short of too tight, Abigail simply reaches out to comb her fingers through his hair until his body relaxes and his breath becomes soft and even. 

 

5\. 

It's not the talk of Dracula and the vampires' mysterious 'final solution' that puts the haunted look back in his eyes. It's seeing Danica Talos in the flesh as they rescue Blade. Abigail isn't surprised.

Just as she isn't surprised when he finds her early the next morning before the sun is up, curling into the warmth of her bed and making himself as small as possible. Hannibal clings to her (though she'll never use that word in his hearing, because she understands him _and_ his pride), and Abigail just shifts to accommodate his body and wraps her arms around him.

"I'm going to kill her," he says with a voice that's raw from too many emotions.

"I know," she replies, even though she has doubts that he can.

As much as Hannibal hates Danica – and he does hate her with every ounce of his being, a hatred that burns bright and clean like the fires of Heaven itself – Abigail knows that there is a part of him, albeit small and unspoken, that still craves what that Hell bitch can give him.

Of all people, Abigail knows that sometimes hate really is just hate. And sometimes it's the flip side of the love coin. Hannibal's hatred for Danica is intrinsically twisted with a vicious, ugly sort of love that's more Stockholm syndrome than anything else.

He's shared the stories with her in the endless dark of the night, tales of depravity and blood and abuse that weren't all inflicted on the humans the vampires hunted.

The raw scars still etch his psyche, evident in the way he sometimes still flinches at a too loud noise or a gentle touch on his neck.

"You know," she starts, but a low sound from him stops her words.

"Don't." His voice is little more than a growl in the dark. "Don't. I'm going to do it. I'm going to kill that soul sucking bitch slowly and painfully."

Abigail smoothes a hand over his hair, down the back of his skull, and lets her hand rest on his nape. The grip doesn't confine him, too gentle to set off his fight-or-flight instinct, and the faint tremors in his muscle vanish.

She doesn't mention how DayStar will ( _should_ , never forget that because they just don't know, God help them) kill Danica and her brother even if Hannibal can't. She doesn't mention it because it's the last thing he needs to hear.

Instead, she scoots down until her forehead rests against his. And she gives him what she can, even if it's just words.

"I know you will," she says as his eyes open to meet hers. "And I'm going to have your back when you do it."

She doesn't mention that she'll ready to finish the job if – _when_ – Hannibal falters. They both already know.

 

+1. 

Doped on painkillers and antibiotics, Hannibal sprawls on his bed, eyes half-closed. His breath comes easier, the knowledge that Danica (and her fuckwit brother, Asher) is dead is a weight off his shoulders. And even if he's not the one who'd delivered the final blow, it's still a sweet, sweet victory.

_"Hang in there, kitten. I'll get help."_

He can't shake the look on her face as she'd lain there on the stairs, choking to death as DayStar had destroyed her from the inside out with agonizing slowness.

It's a look he'll carry to his grave with a smile.

Fucking cunt.

His door creaks, the sound just enough to make his eyes flutter open completely.

Abigail stands there in a loose t-shirt and shorts.

As he watches, she steps into the room, not bothering to close the door. After all, there's no need. Not anymore. They're alone in the compound because everyone else is gone (except Blade, who sleeps like the dead from DayStar's effects).

It's a sobering thought, one that tamps down on the effects of the drugs in his system.

"Abby," he says, but she shakes her head, her hair tumbling around her shoulders.

He follows her every movement and her eyes remain locked on his as she steps towards the bed. When she crosses a patch of moonlight, he sees the wet streaks on her cheeks.

Hannibal's mouth goes dry.

Then she turns her head, looking away from him. And that won't do.

"Abby," he says again, shifting over and patting the mattress beside his hip.

Her body is relaxed, but her fingers tremble as she tugs back the sheets and climbs onto the bed. Her hand is light when she rests it over the bandage on his chest.

All earlier joking aside, Hannibal had been convinced he would die chained to the floor of Danica's cage. Die, or worse. Abigail's eyes tell him she'd believed the same.

When she starts to move away, his hand comes up to grasp hers. She doesn't speak, but neither does he.

They don't need words. They never have, not really.

Whatever she needs, she'll take and he'll give. Because he needs it, too, the reassurance that he's alive, that she's alive, that this nightmare they've lived so long is finished. He'll give her the moon if she wants it.

He can deny her nothing. She asks for so little, preferring to stand on her own. And she's strong enough to not need him. But even the strongest person needs something from time to time.

So Hannibal gives it willingly. Because she won't ask anymore than he will. It's what makes them fit together so well.

Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, her hand still covering the bandage, his hand still covering hers. It takes time, but eventually her breathing evens out to match his. She's not asleep, but then, neither is he.

And as the night ticks by in silence, her body soft and warm where she's curled against him, he just wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls the sheet over them.


End file.
